We halted, curious about the source of the…vERY loud and annoying siren.

Stupid asked, “who is? And close to what?”

Wheezy
butted in, “The Fourth Wall Deconstructionman, you dope! And we must be
close to the Nega-Verse!” And he paused to take a drag from three cigs
at a time.

“He’s right,” Greasy said, “This must be the Nega
version of The Wrong Side of the Tracks. God knows our version of that
neighborhood never had no other colors but brown, grey, black and slimy
green. I like it….maybe it could use some flower boxes.. Maybe a cafe or
two to cheer things up……”

He trailed off awkwardly when he saw me
give him The Look. The Look meant “Quit the chin music unless you want
to speak off key for the rest of your unnatural life.”

“So we’re
here,” I began, turning towards the the fact-simile of our brother,
“What now? Is the Fourth Wall Explosionman a guy you can reproach and
make small talk to?”

-Smartass

“Yeh, and if they ‘ad a hair salon…” the Repairman considered, forgetting the fact it was just a wig.

He shook himself out of that train of thought about the same time as Greasy stopped.

“Ugh, that’s a tough one, I tell ya, I tell ya…”

The Repairman spat a large drop of ink out of his makeshift mouth. It landed on the ground with a splotch.

“He’s not as bad as some,” he said, pulling out a hankerchief and picking up the spat ink, “but only because he don’t move much. But when he does… he’s an annoying sunofa queind [Even with his changes, he still didn’t know how to swear, nor did he care] to deal with.”

He put the ink back into his form, and dropped the hankerchief.

Suddenly, he turned to the right and looked up. A boarded-up window could be seen on the second story. It seemed to be emitting a faint light. If he strained his psuedo-ears, he could hear canned laughter.

“And there’s the sucker now!” he exclaimed, pointing. His siren hadn’t let him down before.

Without hesitation, he wheeled himself around and raced to find the door.